


Queening

by placentalmammal



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-11-04 11:28:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10990005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/placentalmammal/pseuds/placentalmammal
Summary: "Promotion is a chess rule that requires a pawn that reaches its eighth rank to be immediately replaced by the player's choice of a queen, knight, rook, or bishop...promotion to a queen is often called queening."A brief prologue for Adaire Ducarte, before she was Adaire Ducarte.





	Queening

**Author's Note:**

> ETA: Alright, alright I was relistening to some old Forest Party episodes, and Austin and Janine referenced Adaire having been raised by the Creed of Samothes in Velas. Given that and the scene in the lack house in ep. 24 of Winter in Hieron, here's a speculative potential timeline for Adaire (spoilers through An Open Mind):
> 
> birth-8 years old: lives with birth family on a farm outside Velas. At eight, Adaire's (then Addie) parents decide she's one mouth too many, and she is turned over to an orphanage run by the Creed.  
> 8 years old- ~14: raised and educated by followers of Samothes. This Goes Poorly. As a young teen, Addie eventually leaves the orphanage and turns to crime to keep clothes on her back and food in her belly (selling "medicine" and acts of petty theft, making mAPS WITHOUT A LICENSE HOW COULD YOU ADAIRE).  
> ~14-17: achieves some measure of success and runs into trouble with the law.  
> 17: leaves Velas, assumes the name Adaire Ducarte.  
> 17-?????: continues to do crimes and sell maps, but sneakier this time. eventually joins up with Forest Party and begins relentlessly bullying Hadrian.
> 
> thank you for your time.

The Egmond Expeditionary Company is headquartered in the Sun District, a mile north of Temple Street. The business office is on the upper floor of an ugly, low-slung warehouse, a broad flat building shoved up against the wharves on one side and a soap factory on the other. The stink of rendering fat hangs heavy in the still air, mingling with the rotten-fish smell of the polluted harbor. Addie holds her breath as she climbs the stairs to Egmond’s office, pattens clattering against the worn wood.

She’s pink-cheeked and slightly winded when she reaches the landing, and she pauses for a moment to catch her breath and fix her hair. She’s got it back in a braided bun: a becoming, _womanly_ style that makes her look older, at _least_ twenty.

Before she knocks, Addie pauses to peek inside her satchel and check that her work is still nestled securely inside. The bundle of maps, rolled tight and bound with black cord, represents weeks of painstaking work and dozens of coins spent on ink and parchment and charcoal. The Egmond Expeditionary Company is her third stop that afternoon, and her last chance to get out of Velas.

She takes a deep breath to steady herself, and then she raises her hand to knock. A moment’s pause, the sound of shuffling papers, and someone calls out, “Come in.”

Addie opens the door just wide enough to slip through, and then closes it softly behind her. The stink of brine and boiling fat is even stronger inside the office, and it takes all her composure not to recoil physically. Eyes watering, she steps into the small, cramped room and sweeps a polite curtsy. “Addie Kneath-Forman,” she says. “Mr. Egmond, I presume?”

He frowns at her over a pair of brass pince-nez. He’s a small man of middling age and considerable girth, halfling ancestry evident in his stocky build. “Ah,” he says. “ _You._ I’ve heard of you.”

She manages a smile, hands fumbling with the clasps on her bag. “Good things, I hope?” she says, over the hammering of her heart.

Grunting, he waves his hand in a get-on-with-it gesture. He’s got a ring on, real gold by the way it catches the lamplight. “What is it you’re after, girl?”

“Employment,” she says quickly, and she pulls her maps from the bag, setting them on his desk before he can respond. “I’m a cartographer.”

Egmond _hmm_ ’s and makes room his desk, moving an ink blotter and a fish-shaped ashtray to one side to make room for her maps. He spreads them flat and weights the corners with ledgers and inkwells, then bends his head to study her work.

Addie swallows, mouth suddenly dry. She stares intently at the garish oil painting on the wall behind Egmond’s desk, hands clenched in her skirts to stop them from shaking. The air is thick with the awful, choking smell of fish guts and lye, and she can feel a headache coming on. Her thoughts skitter and slip and loop back on themselves: she’s had nothing but rejections since she began, and she’s running out of time. Egmond is her last chance, and if he won’t take her on—

He hasn’t looked up once since she set the maps on his desk. Breathing wheezily, he traces a road with a greasy fingertip, and Addie screams internally. If he leaves a mark, she’s going to start throwing things, job or no job. Each map represents _days_ of work: painstaking calculations and intensive sketches, hours of walking to familiarize herself with the streets and their intersections. A map is an investment—of time, of money, of energy and effort. She’s sunk everything she has into the sheath of papers on Egmond’s desk, every stray coin and every spare moment.

Squaring her shoulders, Addie breathes in deep and counts to ten to calm her racing heart. She smooths her skirts with trembling hands and fixes her gaze on Egmond, trying to project confidence. Her maps are as good as any produced by the cartographer’s union, _and_ she’s dressed well today. Her pinafore is freshly laundered, even if her dress isn’t, and her pattens give her a few extra inches of height. She had seen her reflection in a shop window on her way to Egmond’s office, and she looks older than her seventeen years—twenty or twenty-one. Maybe even twenty-two.

Coughing, Egmond reaches into his jacket and withdraws a large, spotted handkerchief. He’s dressed well, by Addie’s reckoning: a sober suit with an eye-catching cravat, ring gleaming on his finger. The gold band catches the lamplight, and for a moment, Addie forgets to be nervous. She watches his hands and wonders whether she could get the ring onto her own finger without his noticing.

She clenches her fists, nails digging into her palms. _No,_ she reminds herself, _you’re a legitimate businesswoman now._ That’s _past._

Egmond clears his throat and looks up, rheumy eyes settling on her face. “Addie, was it?”

She nods, straightening her spine and forcing a smile onto her face. “Yes sir,” she says, modulating her tone. “Addie Kneath-Forman.”

“These are good,” he says, tapping the map on top of the pile.

Some of the tension drains from Addie’s body. She relaxes slightly, chest swelling with pride. She does good work, she _knows_ she does good work, but it’s nice to have it affirmed. Her latest project, the map on top of the heap, depicts the tangled streets around Samothes’ temple in the heart of the Sun District. She spent three weeks walking those cobbled streets, avoiding the grey uniforms of the Velasian Watch and taking careful note of street names and relative distance.

She opens her mouth to accept her praise, but Egmond interrupts her with a gesture. “But,” he says, and her stomach drops.

“But?”

“But they haven’t got the seal of the cartographer’s union.” He makes a show of looking at her hands, of noticing her bare fingers and the signet ring that isn’t there. “You haven’t got a license to manufacture maps, have you?”

“No, but—“

Egmond doesn’t let her finish speaking. “Now, I may not agree with every law on the books” —Addie scoffs, and he ignores her— “but the union has a stranglehold on the caravan trade. If I were caught hiring a scab, their fines would drive me out of business. You’re a gifted young woman, but taking you on would be a _considerable_ risk.”

“All business is a risk,” she says hotly. “I can be discrete, and besides: you’ve looked at my maps, you know my work’s just as good as any of theirs.”

His frown deepens. “I don’t care for your tone, young lady.” He sets the maps aside and steeples his fingers, ring flashing in the fading light. “Now, I might be persuaded to bring you on as an, ah, _independent contractor_ , but you have to understand that I would be doing you a tremendous favor.”

Addie grits her teeth and bites back her immediate, snappish response. “On what terms?”

He bares his teeth at her, an unctuous smile to compliment the cruel glimmer in his eye. “Firstly,” he says, “you will learn to hold your tongue. I don’t tolerate backtalk from hirelings. Secondly, you pull your own weight. Nobody will be looking after you, a merchant company is _work_ , not a lark for spoiled children.”

She seethes and says nothing, hating every inch of him. If he didn’t have her maps on his desk, she would storm out and slam the door in his face.

“Thirdly,” he says, “any map you make in my employ is _mine_ , as are the profits from copying and selling them. You’ll start at three coin a week, until you prove you’re a worthwhile investment.”

It is insult on top of injury, and it is the spark that sets off her temper. Addie explodes with creative invective, curses trailing from her lips. “I know what my work is worth,” she spits. “That’s starvation wages! I’ve got value, as a mapmaker and a living person.”

She expects a sneer, a scowl. His laughter—sharp and cruel, honed to a stiletto edge—catches her off-guard. She deflates, righteous anger draining away in an instant. The noose around her neck tightens, and she is left with a pounding headache and the immense weight of her fear. It compresses her airways, fills her lungs with cement; she can’t breathe.

“You’re what, fifteen?” says Egmond. “You’re in no position to negotiate, missy. You come in here, a wanted criminal, using your own name. What did you expect? This is the way the world works, Miss Kneath-Forman, you’d best get used to it.”

Tears prick at her eyes and she musters up a scowl. “You miserable old bastard,” she says. “You rotten whoreson.”

“Better her than you,” he says. “You haven’t got the looks for it. Now, do we have a deal, or am I turning you over to the Watch?” He extends his hand to be shaken, and after a moment’s hesitation, Addie takes it. She shakes his hand and then jerks out of his grasp as though scalded, hiding her hands in her skirts.

“Fuck you,” she says.

He smiles again, self-satisfied as a rat in a dung heap. “You’ll thank me for this, someday,” he says, opening a drawer and sliding the maps inside. He closes the drawer with relish, smirking at her over his glasses. “Now get out of my office. We leave tomorrow at sunup, and I’ve work to do before then.”

She slams the door on her way out. It’s petty, but the rattle of the door in the frame lifts her mood somewhat, as does the sight of Egmond’s ring shining in her palm. She dries her tears with a clenched fist and turns the ring over in her hand, studying the metal and the setting with a thief’s critical eye. It’s genuine gold, but the stone is colored glass. It’s a promise ring, initials and a date inscribed on the band. It’s too large to fit on any finger save her thumb. Worth a few coin to a fence, worth more to her as a reminder of lessons learned.

 _Don’t let the bastards grind you down_ , Addie thinks, and she slides the ring onto her thumb. She clomps down the stairs in her pattens, and sets out down the street at a brisk trot. She’s halfway across the district before Egmond realizes his ring is gone.

In the end, she does not thank him. When she breaks into his office that night to retrieve her maps, she smashes a bottle of ink onto his ledger and watches with tremendous satisfaction as the black liquid soaks into the paper, destroying several years of careful record-keeping. She considers starting a fire, but thinks better of it at the last minute. Fires spread uncontrollably, and she doesn’t want to ruin anybody’s life.

Just his.

She ransacks his office and finds a safe hidden behind the oil painting. She hasn’t got the time to pick the lock, so she jams the mechanism with a pick and seals it with varnish from his desk. She dumps the drawers onto the floor and pours more ink onto the carpets. She empties a bottle of wine onto the floor and opens the windows to let flies in. She’s enjoying herself so much that she almost doesn’t hear the guard’s shout from downstairs. It’s a near thing, but she’s out the window before she’s caught, and from there, it’s a breathless flight across rooftops and down twisting alleyways.

She leaves Velas under cover of darkness. She slips out the main gate while the guards are distracted by an incoming farmer and a passel of hogs being brought to market. Hooded, eyes downcast, she takes only what she can carry: a ring (a reminder), a handful of coins knotted into an old scarf, her mapmaking supplies, a few changes of clothing. The things left behind are much greater, and she feels no guilt for abandoning them: a shabby flat and the furnishings contained therein, a carefully-cultivated network of friends and accomplices and informants. Familiar streets, a comfortable routine. The dregs of her childhood. A name.

By the time the sun rises to cast the city in shades of red and gold, the girl is long gone. She will not return for years, but when she does, she will be wearing a stolen ring and an invented name.


End file.
